


i wanna get better

by yotsu8a



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Love, also featuring cameos from most of the other yotsus, well ok probably not actually unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yotsu8a/pseuds/yotsu8a
Summary: Shimura loves, and loves, and loves, and loves, and loves.





	i wanna get better

**Author's Note:**

> contains very brief and non-explicit alcohol use, mentions and implications of past child abuse (mainly neglect), mention of suicide (regarding an irl figure), and some pretty heavy themes involving death towards the end. all in all, nothing too out of place for the original series.

The midwinter Shimura receives his promotion, he is first approached by the VP of Marketing, which is strange, considering he’s never said so much as a word to the other man before in all his time employed at Yotsuba. (He even makes it before Ooi, who Shimura will freely admit was part of the reason he’d managed to get the position at all, but he isn’t sure whether or not to attribute that to fault on Ooi’s part. It won’t be the _first_ time he’d forgotten to speak to Shimura about something — or, “forgotten” — and it probably won’t be the _last_ , either.)

“Hatori Arayoshi. I’m in charge of Marketing,” he introduces himself with a smile that makes Shimura feel strange in ways he decides not to try to identify until he is alone. It’s a formality and they both know it; Hatori’s reputation and status within the company (as well as outside it, really) precede him, they’re both well aware of that. Shimura doesn’t know much of him, other than he’s the illegitimate son of the company president and appears to rely on the fact, and that he treats all situations with a sort of levity that _most_ people find more than a little irritating. His coworkers — those who have actually met the man, at least — are of the opinion that the thirty-one year old VP of Marketing is amusing at best and obnoxious at worst, and Shimura had pictured some bumbling, sleazy fool despite his best attempts to be nonjudgemental. 

He is happy to find his assumptions proven wrong.

Hatori is far more energetic than he had imagined, full of so much enthusiasm that Shimura is almost _flattered_. There is something like hunger in his eyes that Shimura has seen before, a look that is innocent and sad at the same time, with all the demeanor of someone who has been self-taught confidence. He decides to reserve his judgements, moving to introduce himself before suddenly finding any response cut off.

“It’s Shimura, right?” Hatori goes red in the face, apparently realizing that the newly-appointed Head of Personnel had already been preparing a reply (but, to be _entirely_ fair, Shimura had taken a good moment to pause — this wasn’t a conversation he had been expecting, although it probably _should_ have been). Embarrassment aside, he plunges on; “Ooi’s told me about you before. Nothing bad, I promise — well, by Ooi’s standards. You know how he is.”

Shimura has been suspicious of his peers for as long as he can remember, but he still finds himself agreeing when Hatori invites him out for drinks in celebration.

* * *

Every time Shimura inevitably says yes to any sort of social proposition, he finds himself regretting it within the hour. He fidgets in his seat, can hardly bring himself to look others in the eye, never manages to keep his hands still — sure, he _tries_ , and he’s had a few successful ventures (much more lately than in years past), but he’s never really able to rid himself of a certain _gnawing apprehension_.

Apparently Hatori notices it, because their eyes catch during a semi-awkward lull in conversation and he offers a reassuring smile that pulls at Shimura’s insides in a more pleasant rendition of how it feels to drink coffee every morning; it is burning hot and parts of his insides sear in protest, but it’s a relief from an otherwise unpleasant routine and finds a welcome place despite the heat. This, however, is much more foreign.

“So,” Hatori relaunches the conversation, and Shimura finds himself blushing; he chalks it down to the alcohol, although he’s barely touched his drink since they arrived. “I’ve been talking about myself this whole time, haven’t I? You’ve barely said anything — tell me something about _yourself_.” 

“I, uh.” Words fail him for a frantic moment, and Shimura finds himself stuttering out the first thing he can think of. “I, I used to play rugby. The national team offered me a place — I turned it down. Obviously. But I guess I was pretty good at it.”

Hatori’s eyebrows rise; he’s grinning. “Really! I could have guessed that. You look like you still kind of have the body of an athlete, you know.”

He might’ve mistaken that for flirting if Hatori didn’t already have a wife and kids. 

* * *

Spring is halfway through its rejuvenating reign when Hatori invites the older and significantly less jovial department head over for dinner. The rain is coming down in sheets as they scramble up to the doorstep; Shimura had enough foresight that morning to bring an umbrella, and Hatori had enough foresight before they left work to beg him to share (well, he hadn’t really _begged_ , but Shimura is certain he had been _prepared_ to. It’d been in his voice.)

_This is good_ , Shimura thinks as he slips off his shoes and follows Hatori to the kitchen, umbrella left to hang limply from the coat hanger. _This is what a home should feel like._

He immediately does not want to leave.

Chiho, Hatori’s wife, has a lingering look to her eyes that sets Shimura at unease, but he ignores it for the husband’s sake and lets himself get distracted by their children — of three and ten years, respectively, with more resemblance for the mother (smaller eyes, sharper noses, darker hair — but, then, of course their hair is darker, Hatori bleaches his).

“I know him!” Aimi, the ten year old, insists as soon as her father starts to introduce his coworker. “He’s the one with all the glasses. Why isn’t he wearing any?”

Hatori blushes and immediately attempts to explain that Shimura is a _very_ different person from Kida Masahiko, and even though the look he shoots his coworker is partially apologetic, Shimura can’t stop smiling.

(Later, Aimi goes off to take care of her homework or some other grade school task, and Hachirou, a quiet thing whom his father seems to dote on, follows after her. If the mood shifts as soon as they leave, if the tone between their parents immediately becomes more formal — not _hostile_ , just _tired_ — Shimura can at least tell that Hatori isn’t any more unhappy than he had suspected, and that is enough.)

* * *

“‘The happiest people seem to be those who have no particular cause for being happy except that they are so.’”

“What’s that from?”  


“It’s a William Inge quote,” Hatori states, leaning back in his swivel chair.

It’s a nice study; one could tell from a glance that the furniture was of quality, but Hatori had clearly not decorated it with intent to impress anyone or flaunt his wealth. There has to be quite a few dozen books organized (“organized” — there doesn’t seem to be any particular _order_ amongst them, and their appearance is by no means _neat_ ) in the bookshelves, and apparently the family owns a good deal more, since there’s a whole separate _library_ that Shimura has yet to be shown. Hatori is more well-read, he knows, than most of their coworkers realize, and apparently his wife isn’t far behind. The lights are turned off, but the wall opposite them is practically all window, and sunlight is enough to illuminate the papers strewn over Hatori’s desk.

“The name sounds familiar.”

“He’s a Western playwright — erm, _was_. He killed himself back in the seventies. A real shame.” Hatori shrugs, expression momentarily contorting into something Shimura is unused to seeing from him. It’s a disturbing change, but gone before Shimura can comment. “You asked about inspirations, right? Yeah, he’s a big one. Not big enough to make me actually go into writing as a career, but I’m not letting go of my hobbies.” The declaration is punctuated with a laugh, and Shimura’s cheeks turn pink.

“Do you … have any favorites? Works by him, I mean,” Shimura asks with genuine curiosity once he realizes again that he is capable of speech.

“ _Dark at the Top of the Stairs_ , I think,” Hatori decides after a moment. “It’s about … well, it’s about a few things. There’s this one really good quote — well, there are a few, but I like this one most. Morris says it — or maybe it’s Lottie quoting Morris — but it’s about how sometimes people who seem happiest are really the saddest. I read it back in high school and something about it just struck a cord with me, you know? The whole play did.”

“The only thing that struck a cord with _me_ in high school was the Smiths,” Shimura jokes (although it isn’t really a joke, and it didn’t stop after high school). “What about _your_ writing? Is it like Inge’s work at all?”

“No, not really,” Hatori laughs, reaching to arrange some of the papers into a more coherent stack. “I might like _reading_ the sad, realistic stuff from time to time, but I can’t _write_ it. Most of the stuff I write is for children. Short stories, picture books, stuff like that.” A pause. “And poems.”

“Poems?”

“Okay, so maybe I do write _some_ sad stuff,” Hatori admits, shrugging his shoulders, “but _that_ stuff is definitely _not_ intended for publishing. Why don’t I show you some drafts? Happy stories only.”

Shimura spends the rest of the evening smiling wider than he has for a long time, and if his chest is doing that same coffee-routine-like sensation again, it’s because of the artist, not the art.

* * *

 

Shimura finds himself yanked from sleep at three o’clock the next morning to the sound of crickets chirping outside his window. The noise is familiar, and unlike most times he finds himself pulled awake, he isn’t covered in cold sweat, lungs struggling for air in a room that feels too large, too dark. This is different; this is comfortable, warm, home. Like most nights, his thoughts gravitate towards a certain subject — tonight, however, it’s the subject itself that differs. When, in the midst of sorting through hundreds of hazy thoughts, the revelation hits him, it is softened by his drowsy state.

_I think I’m in love._

* * *

Summer is reeling its ugly head (ugly to Shimura, at least, although he knows those who would disagree), and he is soaked with sweat and nervous excitement as he and Hatori make their way to the front door. He has no family to be introduced to, no expansive library (not that his own book collection is anything to scoff at), but he had figured he at least ought to return the favor, and the presence of this particular coworker is anything but unwelcome (no _unwelcome_ visitor could make his heart flutter like this, as cliché as he knows it sounds).

“This place is a little big for just one guy, isn’t it?” Hatori asks as Shimura slips off his shoes. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

* * *

“You should smile more,” Hatori announces, kicking idly at a pile of brown and orange leaves.

Shimura’s stride falters for a moment, but he manages to stop himself from pausing too long. The statement was out of the blue and his face gives it away, wide eyes peering curiously at the other man and mouth slightly agape; his hands twist at the fabric of his pockets, and his gaze shifts from the younger man’s face to the leaves he is busy scattering over the ground and back again.

“What makes you say that?” he manages out, finally.

“Oh, I don’t mean anything bad by it!” Hatori assures him unhelpfully. “It’s just that, I don’t know. You’re a good guy, Shimura. I’d hate to think that you’re unhappy, because you don’t deserve to be, but sometimes I think you are. I’ve thought so ever since I met you, and it looked like it changed for a bit, but you seemed kind of down more once summer started up. Is that just me? Sorry, you don’t have to answer that — I might be wrong. But, I know that I’m really happy to have to around, and you … I mean, you _do_ have a nice smile.”

“Oh.” Shimura actually _does_ stop in his tracks this time, eyes fixing themselves upon the shorter man; he can feel the heat rising to his face, flame-like despite the cool braze. “ _O-oh_.”

“And!” Hatori adds after a beat, obviously taking note of his coworker’s flustered taciturnity and setting out to do away with it. “And, when you’re unhappy, you look like a really sad cat.”

“ _A sad c_ —” The words are wiped out by a fit of laughter before Shimura can finish them, and he finds himself giggling into his hand. It takes him several moments to regain himself, and when he looks up, he finds Hatori red and smiling, somewhere between pleased and embarrassed.

“Keep saying things like that, and you shouldn’t have to worry about how little I smile.”

* * *

“How are your kids doing, by the way?” Shimura asks, sliding into the red-cushioned booth seat.

“Well! Very well.” Hatori’s response is immediate and warm, face softening in the way, Shimura decides, a father’s should when he talks about his kids. It fills him with needle-like longing that brawls with a certain pounding of his heart that he’s come to realize accompanies Hatori’s smile like whipped cream accompanies strawberries. “Aimi is getting top grades, but that’s nothing new, of course. Hachirou’s starting kindergarten. He’s … well, he’s not having the easiest time adjusting to it, truth be told. He’ll be okay, though! We’re doing all we can, and school hasn’t been in session long — plus, this is only his first year, right? I’ll make sure he’s comfortable there. And Chiho…”

His brow furrows briefly; somehow, Hatori manages to make even expressions of serious contemplation look like pouts. Shimura frowns in turn, leaning in slightly over the table.

“Chiho?”

“Well, she loves the kids. She’s doing her best for them, too,” Hatori finishes at last, but his tone is strained.

_But for someone like Hatori, falling out of love must be a lot scarier than if they just_ hated _each other._ The thought yanks painfully at Shimura’s chest; he had initially chalked down his suspicions about Hatori’s relationship to the ires of jealousy (or maybe some sick form of hope) and done his best to dissuade them himself, but the more time passed, the more he had begun to realize that he hadn’t been as incorrect as he had assumed.

Still, he isn’t sure what to say at first, or what he _needs_ to say, and Hatori looks like he’s wilting in his seat. The man (although he looks far more like a boy right now than a thirty-two year old should) swallows, running his fingers anxiously through light hair, and when he opens his mouth Shimura can tell he’s rushing to backpedal as far as possible. He resolves to cut him off first.

“You’re a good dad, Hatori.” He surprises himself with the reply, and apparently Hatori is no better; the man’s mouth immediately snaps shut. “I’m … sorry if this is too personal or something, but I mean it. Your kids couldn’t ask for a better father. They’re lucky to have you.”

A period of silence passes; Hatori stares at him, seemingly a bit thunderstruck, before visibly relaxing in his seat. Voice low, he responds, “I … Thank you. It means a lot. … You know, my … dad wasn’t really around when I was a kid.” The words are slow, unsure; they sound dragged out of him as if by force. “I mean, neither of my parents were, but especially not him. It was … well, you can guess. It’s kind of funny — I see him more now that I’m an adult than I did when I was really little, or when I was a teenager, or … yeah. It’s still not the same — he really is just like my boss, and nothing else. … Plus I think he likes Namikawa better than me, anyways.” He laughs weakly, but his voice is too tired and bitter for it to be genuine.

“I know what that’s like. The — the dad thing, I mean.” Shimura might have offered a hug or a pat on the shoulder if they were sitting beside each other, but they’re not, so he offers his sympathy and his own experiences instead. “Actually, I …” He clears his throat. “I never knew my father. He left before I was born. As for … as for, well… Never mind. It’s not relevant. Y-you know what, Hatori? Fuck your dad.”

It is eerily silent for a good few seconds.

Hatori bursts out laughing.

“G-good _god_ , Shimura! You just keep surprising me, you know that?” he manages between snickers. “You’d better not let anyone _else_ hear you say that, or you’ll be out of a job.”

* * *

Ironically enough, Shimura realizes, it is also Dainosuke Yotsuba who delivers their death sentence.

He can’t imagine that the president is really on board with the meetings, with the coldblooded murder of men guilty only of the crime of competing with their company (if he even knows the full extent of what’s taking place there; he called them together and proceeded to leave them to their own devices, which was apparently also how he decided to do his parenting). Still, he serves as the initial messenger, and even all this time after Hatori told him about his father’s (lack of) parenting skills, Shimura can’t shake his distaste for the man.

(Maybe calling it a _death sentence_ is a little harsh — a good number of his coworkers seem measurably less apprehensive — but he still can’t vanquish the feeling that this is all bad business, morally and otherwise.)

As it turns out, _Hatori_ is one of these coworkers.

“Isn’t it great, Shimura?” he exclaims one evening, stretching his arms casually above his head as the two of them exit the meeting room together; the other six had already left for the night, but the VP of Marketing had lingered behind with his friend. “Man, just _thinking_ of all the places this could get Yotsuba gets me excited. Who would’ve thought Kira would be so _generous_ , right?”

The room is stiflingly quiet.

“Hatori.” Shimura’s voice is quiet, shaky. “Please be careful.”

* * *

It takes a few months for his optimism to falter.

Their eyes meet briefly outside the hotel; the too-close press of the crowd around them isn’t enough to stifle the cold night air, or the chill that is suddenly running through them both (but hasn’t Shimura been feeling it since June?), or the manager’s corpse being rushed away in an ambulance. Higuchi is speaking, but he can barely hear it — he just sees Hatori, Hatori’s eyes staring back at him, wide and shocked and horrified. Shimura tries to move towards him once the crowd disperses and their coworkers begin to depart.

They leave in separate cabs.

* * *

A week passes, and Shimura goes about his Saturday with a foreboding pit in his stomach. When his phone rings a few minutes after noon, he nearly has a heart attack himself.

Actually, it would be a lie to say he _hadn’t_ been expecting this. He invites Hatori over.

The man looks a mess. He’s not dressed in business attire for the first time Shimura’s ever seen him (neither of them are), and his shirt is crumpled and unevenly buttoned, as if it had been thrown on in a great hurry; his collar is crooked and his hair is uncombed. His eyes are red; his breathing is uneven; his clothes don’t match.

“I d-don’t want my kids to see me like this.”

Shimura ushers him inside as quickly as he can manage, and Hatori immediately collapses onto his couch. Shimura sits down, and he begins bawling.

He wishes there was something he could say to comfort him; he wishes he could say, “It’s okay, Hatori,” or, “No, Hatori, you won’t be murdered,” or, “Don’t worry, Hatori, Kira values you too much to put you to death.” He wishes he could lie convincingly.

But this time, they are actually sitting beside each other, so Shimura offers a hug, and a million apologies, because that is all he has left.

Eventually, he stops apologizing, and Hatori doesn’t stop sobbing, but he does at least grow quieter. They remain still and pressed together; the next time Shimura glances to the clock, it is nearly four in the evening, but Hatori is the one to pull away first.

“I-I can’t stay here. I need to leave.”

_Stay, please_ , Shimura wants to say. _I love you, I love you, I love you so much, please don’t go, I’m sorry they’re doing this to you, I’m sorry I couldn’t convince them otherwise_ , Shimura wants to say.

Instead, he says, “Hatori — please be careful.”

* * *

Shimura does not see him again.

* * *

The next week is a blur until Friday. He spends the morning retching over his toilet until he forces himself to leave for work, the day a vacant ghost, the evening wanting desperately to _hide hide hide, hide so that no one will ever ever ever see you again_ , the night sobbing into his pillow until his body refuses to carry on. The prospect of returning to yet another one of those _fucking meetings_ on Friday fills him with dread, panic, loathing, but he is able to pull himself together by the time work is over and he has to board the elevator up to the nineteenth floor.

It’s hell.

He knows Higuchi killed Hatori — it’s obvious that Higuchi is Kira, has been for a long time. And the way Namikawa talks about what they’ve lost makes Shimura want to scream, want to vomit, want to say _what the fuck is wrong with you, where’s your damn humanity, where is your loyalty,_ ** _where is your_** **_fucking humanity_** , and the way Ooi dismisses it as if the loss of human life, as if the loss of a _particular human’s_ life, the life of a human who was _one of them_ , is nothing more than a _precaution_ , nothing more than a sign that says “don’t be an idiot; submit quietly; follow us and march to your death; let’s dig our grave together; drop your shovel and we shoot,” — it leaves him bewildered. He had thought that _Ooi_ , of _all_ people, he could trust to have some loyalty, some remaining shred of dignity, but no — here he is, abandoning them all to the dogs. Abandoning Shimura — abandoning _Hatori_.

He’s lucky that he has more to focus on — his growing suspicions regarding Coil, the desperate need to convince Kira to reveal himself to the rest of the group, Namikawa’s phone call towards the end of the meeting — because he keeps thinking he sees a figure sitting in that chair (are they really going to keep that thing in here, won’t someone move it?), keeps feeling it boring holes through his skin. He does not break down; he pushes through the conversation, he remains attentive, because the situation is too dire for him to do anything else. His attempts to uncover Kira are thrown out, and so are his suspicions (if he hadn’t changed his mind about Ooi before, he certainly had now), but he manages to keep himself afloat, and that’s what matters for the time being.

When the meeting ends, he leaves quickly, avoiding eye contact with the other six (although he notices Takahashi moving in his direction), and doesn’t let himself think too much until he gets home

He’s relieved to find that he’s less _nervous_ , but instead he just feels _angry_ , desperate, betrayed, hungry for change, to _make_ change. His coworkers are divided into those who don’t care for caution, for human life, for _one another’s_ lives, and those too petrified to stand up; his own ideas (caution, regard for human life, for one another’s lives) have been beaten into the dirt; Hatori is _dead_ , is gone, has been stabbed twenty-three times (or maybe just seven) and left to rot. There is only one thing left to be done.

(And the next day, he wakes up with softened resolve, with the idea of a coup d’état dwindling to a _maybe_ , to an _if it really comes down to it_ , but the conclusion is only delayed, not erased; after all, there is only _one place_ this could get Yotsuba.)

**Author's Note:**

> yes, william inge being hatori's favorite playwright and dattots being his favorite of his works is symbolic. yes, this fic is named after a bleachers song. no, i am not sorry.
> 
> ALSO! kindergarten is voluntary in japan, but can last for two years instead of one, hence why hachirou is starting at three years old.
> 
> http://sugurushimura.tumblr.com/


End file.
